Okay, /mu/, I have hit a block.
Rings of intoxicating smoke rose up from two casually hanging hands on opposite sides of a bed, dangling in loose rhythm to strains of "Take Me Home", a mutual favourite Phil Collins jam from the soundtrack of Miami Vice on cassette. These hands hold in the middle. A pink hoody hangs casually from the shoulders of the man on the right, as if it were a jacket of Don Johnson's, of the series aforementioned. Black panties bunched up on the perfectly thin, inward navel of the woman on the right, below her half-on, half-off bra. It's easy to see why the panties came off first, they could barely contain what was covered under...
It is 5 o clock in the evening.
Ramona lets out a giggle, sits up and adjusts her hair. "You're still selling me those cassettes, if I'm not mistaken... That is why I am her?" She takes the final hit of her joint, and puts it out in an adjacent plastic ashtray. The man, or boy, thinks while absent-mindedly removing his and her rubbers and flicking them off into the trashcan. He'd like to go without one next time, if there is a next time.
"Take Me Home" fades away, and "The Last Unbroken Heart" starts up. He knows he will have to get up and switch sides soon, and is saddened. He cherishes this post-coital moment, beautiful in its unlikelihood. "You can have them", he whispers. Ramona looks up at the ceiling, cracks a side-smile, and shrugs. She's not sure what it was that put these two in bed, but damn was it great. However, she's missed a dinner with a former Ussachevsky student. She's probably getting dropped by her label for her failure, and probably very soon.